


Not Without Him

by absinthefae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:04:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absinthefae/pseuds/absinthefae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson just can't live without his best friend anymore</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Without Him

As he tied the rope around the banister in the living room of 221B, John Watson reflected on his life. Compared to the last few months with Sherlock Holmes, the rest of his life seemed absolutely ordinary. Even his time in the was insignificant compared to the things and people he had experienced. A man who could see everything, no matter how tiny or hidden it was. Hounds that were figments of the imagination amplified by years of fear. Even a glowing bunny rabbit seemed phenomenal compared to his old dreary life. Though dreary was all he experienced anymore since Sherlock died. He couldn't live with it anymore.  
He had tried filling his life with new people, places, and things. But none of it mattered. He missed his old life, the one he had experienced with a man so impossibly smart, his best friend. But that man was dead and gone. He had seen him jump from the top of the building and he had looked for his pulse when he was on the ground with a gash in his temple that was steadily bleeding. All he had found was stillness beneath that pale flesh.  
He swallowed as he stood on the stool he positioned near the couch. He grabbed the rope and stuck his head through the loop, letting the excess hang loosely around his neck. He could feel his pulse quicken as he realized what he was about to do. With a large exhale he tipped the stool over, letting his body twitch and wriggle before becoming still.

The moment the stool hit the floor the door of the building opened, revealing a tall man. Sherlock Holmes entered the apartment, his cheeks uncharacteristically covered with stubble, and ascended the stairs. He couldn't help but smile, knowing that though John would be furious at him for leaving, he would be happy that he was back.  
As he opened the door to their flat, his eyes immediately focused on the still form dangling in the center of the room. With quick hands he grabbed a knife and sliced through the rope, catching John in his arm and laying him down on the floor. He pressed his ear against his chest and held his breath. But it was no good. John Watson was dead. He sat up and stared at him before standing and going into his room, feeling that though he was now technically alone in the room he needed a bit of privacy. As Sherlock passed by John's room, a piece of folded white paper on top of the bed spread caught his eye.

'Sherlock,  
I know that you'll never read this, but there are things you deserve to know. These past few months have been some of the most exciting, if terrifying, moments of my life. Even the moments where I was the subject of your scientific experimentation gave me a thrill.  
It is with a heavy heart that I bid you goodbye, though, perhaps, it is a hello of sorts. I have no inclination of whether heaven actually exists or if once one is buried they're finished, but if I do get the chance to meet up with you in the afterlife, I would enjoy it very much. I miss you Sherlock.  
Your friend and partner,  
John H. Watson'

He neatly folded the letter and placed it in his breast pocket, his face void of all emotion. He descended the stairs and told Mrs. Hudson of the recent tragic events before sitting himself next to Watson's corpse. Next to him lay the only man in the entire world who hadn't thought him a complete mad man. He didn't think that he would end up murdering some poor soul one day in a deranged fit. Now that person was gone, his rock was gone. He took his pistol from his pocket, he carried it with him always, and raised it to his temple with a steady hand. He had faked his own death once. Actually dying shouldn't be too hard. He thought about how the bullet would shoot through his brain and lowered the gun. No, he didn't strengthen his brain endlessly for it to simply end up splattered on the walls. That would be ironic cruelty at it's finest. Instead he grabbed the knife he used to cut John's noose. It was light and smooth in his hand, the blade thin.  
It would be quick. He raised his arm before forcing the knife through his stomach. He could feel the skin on his back split open as the blade poked through. He, too, fell on the floor. Blood surrounded his body in puddles, staining both his and John's clothes with macabre flowers. In his last moments, Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and let himself smile.


End file.
